


The White Hand

by HeatherGiesbrecht



Category: Crimson Peak (2015), The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Blood, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Crimson Peak Spoilers, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Language, F/M, Fear, Friendship, Gay Sex, Gen, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Love, Lullabies, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, Rings, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, Singing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-04 18:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5344478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeatherGiesbrecht/pseuds/HeatherGiesbrecht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mi'lady Beatrice ? Young master Thomas, mistress Lucille ?" Finlay felt his brows furrow as no one answered. He was alone. Where could they have gone ?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ruffians

Finlay noticed that the path up to the mansion which should've been smooth was disturbed, churned up and half-frozen to muddy slush as if by many boots. Behind him the Sharpes' cart horse, Styx, snorted and stamped his hooves. The old man calmed the horse before he ascended the steps and entered Allerdale Hall. Normally he could hear if the Great Hall's fire was lit and he heard nothing, which caused a worry to bloom in his chest. "Mi'lady Beatrice ? Young master Thomas, mistress Lucille ?" His brows furrowed as no one answered. 

All of a sudden the Detective Inspector of Harding Poole, Morgan Holloway's voice called, "Eh, ol' Finlay tha' you ?"

Flummoxed, he turned and walked out onto the threshold. "It is indeed I. Now, pray tell me Inspector Holloway, wherever are the Sharpes ?" What he could hear was a bevy of horses and men milling about.

He could only imagine that Inspector Holloway's red hair by now would have started greying as the man climbed the steps. The Inspector's hat rustled as he took it off, "I's mi rag'ret ta inform ya, Mr. Finlay, tha' a few days ago Lady Beatrice, we'll, she wos found murdered in 'er bath and the children 're missin'."

Lady Beatrice was dead ? She had never been the good sort, a horrid person no matter how one put it and so he could not truly mourn her loss. Young Sir Thomas and lady Lucille however they were but children. Young master Thomas had never hurt a thing in his 12 years of life, he was a sweet child. At 14 years old, young lady Lucille was an odder sort but cared immensely for the young master. Not a thing in this world, the next or another could have made the girl abandon her little brother. 

The only thing he could think of went through his mind and out his mouth. "It must've been a band of ruffians, Inspector. They must've forced the gates, stole into the house and killed Her Ladyship before the children managed to escape outside. The young ones are probably hiding in the far forest for fear of being found and murdered themselves."

Inspector Holloway scratched at his hair, "Tha's jus' the thing ain't it ? When we got 'ere it was locked tight, no way a ban'nit would'ave locked a gate behind 'imself."

Finlay's brows raised in disbelief, "You can't be saying what I think you are, surely ? They are children, children cannot commit murder !"

"I' don't matter either way she's dea'd. 'N them kids's been out inna wilds fer a'least three some days wit'out shelter, food 'n prop'a clothes. We ain't found 'em yet 'n now I doubt we e'er will." 

If he hadn't sat down he would've fallen instead. "O' dear God, first I lose my Amelia and now young Sir Thomas too."

The inspector put a hand on his shoulder, "Easy does it, ol' thing, I'll keep lookin' anot'er day er two yet, ya have mi word."

Unconsciously, he closed his eyes, scrubbed his face and prayed that they were safe.


	2. Compulsion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medlin - Bearlike

Thomas's joy at being free of Mama finally evaporated as he and Lucille stopped running for what felt the first time in weeks. It was replaced by fear as, gasping, his vision expanded from its tunneled focus and he noticed the imposing white tower in the distance. "Lu...Lucille, I don't remember that...being there before. Ah, God, my ribs hurt."

Lucille let go of his hand to wrap her arms around his waist, "It must have...it cannot have simply sprung up...from nowhere. We can rest, reach it tomorrow morning."

They sank down among the tangled roots of an enormous tree, but before they could fall asleep the tree suddenly yawned. It was a great sound, even worse than the house's breathing, for this was much deeper, much older. A creak of wood before a leafy head looked down at them with yellow eyes. "Ho-hum, what have we here ? Little ones lost in the wood ?"

Instinctively, he froze and Lucille took over, "We are lost, yes. Would you be so kind as to help us, Mr. ?"

"My name is Fangorn and I am Fangorn as I am its Ent, but you may call me Treebeard. Shall I take you to Saruman ?"

"I am Lady Lucille Sharpe, this is my little brother, Sir Thomas, we're pleased to meet you, Mr. Treebeard. Whom is this Saruman you speak of ?"

Treebeard lifted a root-like foot to hold them in his palm then to peer at them as dear old Finlay did. "It is rare to find one of Men these days who knows of Saruman the Wise. He is of the Istari, the Wizards, and being the White he is greatest of them. Young master Saruman does not walk with me much as he used to do nor does he ask me any longer how my trees fair."

Near fifteen feet in the air the sun had become much brighter and the tower more visible than before. He tried to listen to Treebeard's slow and rumbling talk, but he was so tired that now and again he found himself starting awake. Eventually with Lucille wrapped around him as a vine he fell into a deeper, thankfully dreamless sleep. When he awakened it was to find Lucille still in her nightdress and an old, long haired and bearded man clad in white stood over him. The man whom he assumed was Saruman wore not a nightgown, but an actual robe.

Saruman's voice was quite deep, rather mesmerizing too, "Good morning, young Thomas, you will be glad to know that you woke just in time for breakfast and tea."

"Good morning, Lucille, Mr. Saruman." Slowly, he got up, stretching before he asked, "What are we having ?" 

"Toast, bacon, eggs, and there are a few fresh apples as well."

He followed them supposing that they looked rather a trail of ghosts as they moved into a white-brick dining room. Lucille and himself sat on either side of the table whilst Saruman took the head. A short while after they had helped themselves and started to eat Saruman asked, "Not many would dare to venture into Fangorn Forest lest they had no other choice. So, Lucille, Thomas, tell me whatever were two children doing there ? Hiding from something, a band of foul orcs, perhaps ?"

The compassion in the wizard's voice compelled him to explain about Papa's and Mama's abusing himself - Papa's trying to strangle him once, another time abandoning him to die in the snow - and their whipping and smacking of Lucille amongst many other things. How approximately four years ago they had gotten revenge on Papa with how he'd cut a bit into Papa's saddle-strap and how Lucille had given him a bit of laudanum and arsenic. How when Papa had fired his rifle the saddle-strap had snapped and he'd fallen off to hit his head on the ground and died there.

Also, he was embarrassingly compelled to explain how mere days ago Mama had caught himself and Lucille together on the nursery's couch. Mama had screamed that in a few hours they would never see each other again, that they were monsters. After Mama left Lucille had snuck down to the kitchen, gotten a meat cleaver out and waited for Mama to take a bath. It made him cringe as he remembered Mama's scream echoing up to him before Lucille near split her skull in twain. That Lucille had taken him to see Mama's still twitching body then hidden the cleaver before they'd fled. Fled not looking back, ignoring their exhaustion and the strain that'd caused the odd lights to flash before their eyes, and stopped only when they'd seen the white tower.

Saruman looked between them for a moment, "I know many things of Middle-Earth, but I do not know why you are here. Perhaps though in exchange for my informing you of Arda you two might help me until you return to your England ?"

Lucille took a few sips of her tea, "You are one of the most powerful beings in this world what would you wish our help with ?"

"There are somethings that I cannot do and with which I would appreciate your help. You seem very skilled with a knife, I can have someone train you further and I can teach Thomas the skills of manipulation and information extraction. You two would become The Assassins of the White Hand. What say you to this proposal ?"

Both he and Lucille traded looks, if they were to end up staying here for a long time they might very well make themselves useful to someone. Simultaneously, they replied, "We agree to this."

_ Gondor, Minas Tirith - 8 years later... _

Soft moans and grunts filled the guardhouse, torchlight gleamed off sweat-slicked bodies, glinted off racks of polished swords and shields. Pale hips slowed, stilling before Thomas came and the Sergeant-at-Arms clenched around him. 

His muscles trembled and he braced against the dark oak desk, loosening his grip on Medlin's cock as the blond bucked. "One last thing Medlin." 

An overloud, "Cugu !" as rattling chain-mail and clomping boots paraded past.

After he'd caught his breath, he chuckled, "Ssh, we don't want the men to hear do we ? Just tell me where the Lord Steward is and you can finish." 

Lucille would be impatiently waiting to strike at Denethor, son of Ecthelion. It had taken them far longer to plan this than when they had assassinated Theoden, son of Thengel, King of Rohan, four years ago. Of course, most of that time he had spent in pursuit of Medlin, obtaining his...intimate...knowledge of the city.

"The Tower, he's always there. Ah, mm, yes." A few tight rough strokes had Medlin spilling himself across the desk. 

Quickly the door to the guardroom opened then closed. Very carefully, he withdrew from the older man as Lucille strode to the Gondorian. Her black leather-hilted dagger flashed while he went to the far corner where he'd thrown his clothes. In an attempt to ignore Medlin's gasp he focused on stepping into his black cotton trousers, belting on the dagger that'd never left its sheathe, and pulling on his long-sleeved cobalt tunic. Lastly, he clasped the broach of his dove grey cloak from which he had assumed the name Cugu.     

Thomas muttered, "Denethor is where we suspected, sister." The least he could do for the man who'd fallen in love with him was return Medlin's dignity, which he did. After he re-dressed the thirty-six year old, he and Lucille left for the Tower of Ecthelion and the Citadel on the seventh level. They could not fail or Saruman would be disappointed with them.      


	3. Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lullaby Thomas sings is a much altered version of the one from the Crimson Peak Novelization.

Thomas and Lucille stood in the great courtyard of Gondor before the famous White Tree. Long had it lain dormant within the fountain and would until Gondor's rightful King returned. Medlin's fellow guards paid them no mind as they wound around the tree with gravely purposeful airs to the double doors of the Tower of Ecthelion, the throne room. The doors were opened and their footsteps echoed solemnly across the fifty foot floor; the ceiling was low, only ten feet above them, made of dark stone that was claustrophobic as it reminded him fearfully of their former home.

Onyx pillars and white marble abounded while set far back were two thrones - the closest and rightmost was the Steward's, the farthest, center most and led to by a short stair was the King's. Sat in the Steward's throne was Denethor a pale, weathered-looking man clad in dark robes and ermine fur. The Steward's neck length hair had started greying at the temples.

They stopped ten feet away before he swept off his hood and bowed, greeting, "Hail Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord Steward of Gondor." Lucille too removed her hood, her raven hair pinned into its bun, the travel-worn sapphire cloak brushing the floor as she curtsied.

A sneer twitched across Denethor's lips, "Do the guards now presume when I wish entertainment ?"

"No, my lord, it is my own presumption. Two days ago I heard the great Captain-General of Gondor say that you had an appreciation of music." It was not as some might have presumed a lie, but the truth as Medlin and himself had overheard the light brown haired man saying such.

Dour but keen grey eyes suddenly lit, "Roundabout way that it was my son Boromir sent you to me ?"

"In a way, yes. I have heard many tales of you, and of him, but I've not heard much of the woman who bore him. Surely to produce such a fine son she was quite beautiful, no ?" 

"Aye, Finduilas was. So too was she the only woman that I ever loved, Faramir reminds me much of her at times." The Steward's ring of silver and onyx glimmered as Denethor waved a hand, "To business, sing something for me which I have never heard before."

While they had walked up from the fifth level's guardroom they had reaffirmed the song they would sing - a modified version of their lullaby. He took Lucille's hand, interlocking their fingers as they spun in a gentle circle. Though it was odd not to feel her wearing the Sharpe engagement ring with its simple golden band and enormous garnet the ring was too easily recognized. As she pulled away from him backing to stand in an archway he started singing.

"Far I go from dale to vale,

ne'er a home shall I know whilst I ponder thee.

O' sweet rose, thou lost to me,

where oh, where oh my lover, do you roam ? 

Not near the sea where I might sail to thee,

nor on the land with a trail I might follow.

O' my lover, so lonesome one,

let the moon light your path

and the wind fill gently the sails of your dreams.

Let the night carry you to me, lest I should e'er

wonder where oh, where oh my lover can I meet with thee ?" 

The last word lingered in the air as he bowed a second time, Lucille had acted as an echo. It was obvious that the song had affected the older man as he'd closed his eyes and had gripped an arm of his throne. Of course, Lucille had not been standing idle during his performance. She had glided with silken whispers to stand before Denethor, surreptitiously unsheathing the dagger sewn into the belt of her dress. Now, Lucille asked, "Do you still miss Finduilas, mi'lord ?" 

"Of course I miss her." The Steward opened flinty eyes and rose a sword in hand. "Tell me, do you think me stupid, girl ? That I had no clue of your little scheme ?" 

She stepped backward blocking Denethor's fumbled attempt to slash at her face. "Very much, yes. Know mercy then, Lord Steward, and greet Finduilas in death." Where Denethor was awkward, Lucille was fluid. Quick as lightning she knocked Denethor's hand wide and thrust the dagger into his jugular vein. Just as swiftly she pulled it free darting aside to avoid the blood spray. For a few moments Denethor stared at them, blood pulsing from his neck before he collapsed with the crack of bone against his throne.

Two metallic clatters echoed through the room. When Lucille's dagger rattled to a stop, easily visible on the hilt was an emblazoning of the claw-like White Hand. His heartbeat thudded in his ears as he re-donned his hood, spun on his heel and started toward the doors. Like all royal guards/doormen those of Gondor were trained not to look inside the room, this would keep their deed from being discovered for a while.

Now effecting a slumped shoulder and casual step as if some great worry had lifted they walked from the courtyard to disappear into the milling crowd. It was time to test the walls and staggered gates of the upper levels. Whether Denethor's murder would remain undiscovered long enough for them to gather their packs and escape was a mystery. Guilt plagued him, he wanted someone to catch them. 


	4. Clothing

Thomas's wish passed unfulfilled as they reached the inn on the fourth level unchallenged. Their room was paneled and floored in warm oak, ceilinged with light grey stone as was the fireplace where mere embers burned. Carefully, he closed the door before perfunctorily moving to where his pack lay on the bed then pulled out fresh clothes and stripped. The floor creaked before Lucille's arms wrapped around his waist, her bare breasts pressing against him. The first, and last, time she'd reclaimed him was after she ordered him to distract Theodred so that she could kill the poison weakened Theoden.

Now, she tried again, murmuring, "Your so lovely, brother. My Thomas, my little, hmm-hmm, doubting Thomas." Lucille trailed soft kisses from his right temple to the corner of his mouth. Her hand drifted over his abdominals, down his hips to cup his bollocks and stroke his shaft. She rutted against him, but he just...wasn't interested. Even if he somehow were, the fact he'd just watch her kill a human would've softened him. When he'd been with Theodred he hadn't had to watch Theoden die, he couldn't have made himself watch Medlin die.

Animals he could watch long as death was swift but the look of cold satisfaction in Lucille's eyes as Denethor bled had terrified him. In utter opposite of himself Lucille wounded flies to watch them twitch until they died. She had her entomology, she collected butterflies to kill and preserve the prettiest ones. Lucille had rooms upon rooms of insects in glass cages and enclosures, and selectively bred the black moths to become soot black, even darker than the ones at home.   

Thomas closed his eyes, "Lucille, I...I can't. I'm not like you, killing someone doesn't arouse me."

A huff from his sister as she suddenly backed away. "Your right, you are nothing like me, you're far too softhearted. How could you know, Thomas ? You've never killed someone, bloody fucking hell, you've never even killed a fly. The next time Saruman gives us a mission you are going to man up for once and kill our target."

Grateful that she had given up, he dressed in emerald trousers, tunic and a unclosable, black ankle length coat. It wasn't England and Earth, but he still felt better to wear some mourning black for the time directly after their missions. He folded the dirty clothes into the bottom of his pack then settled his wood-working tools on top. Not only were the tools good for helping relieve his boredom by making toys and trinkets, but they were also very good for instigating diversions. Briefly, he grimaced, they needed to trust each other, they couldn't work properly if she was angry at him. 

After pulling his pack onto his shoulders he turned to see that she had dressed in her flowing, crimson gown with bell-shaped sleeves. The dress was embroidered at the hems, open collar, and waist with golden holly leaves. Her hair lay in loose waves about her shoulders, it shone like fine silk in the firelight as he ran his fingers through it. Before he laid his hand on her shoulder, "I'm sorry, Lucille, you know I've never been prone to violence. However, I swear that if nothing else I will try." 

Lucille murmured, "It is not your fault that I saved us from Papa and Mama. I have seen you angry, Thomas, I know you can do it, you have simply never let yourself." It was then the city's bell rang and she teased, "Come now, brother, we must attempt to leave...if nothing else." She tied her black cloak around her neck and took up her own pack.

The bell still tolled as they made their way into the packed hall where frightened children clung to their mothers skirts. If only their own mother'd been so caring things would have turned out much differently. Half-hidden among the crowd was an old man who reminded him of Finlay. Whatever had happened to the old man he could not help but wonder. Finlay had always had the best in mind for him and the last time they'd spoken, after he had acted very badly, had snuck out of the house, was to say they would see each other in the spring. Saruman had found nothing so far to send them home, when they were away from the man he became plagued with doubts but near soon as the White Wizard talked they would disappear for a while. It'd been eight bloody years, Mama was dead, they had nothing to fear about going home as the Constables would never believe children could've killed someone. Even if they did the Constables could not force them to do anything as they were both well above the age of majority.

When the others filed out into the street they followed the crowd to the obviously locked gate. A blond haired man pushed through the crowd to shout, "Hey, what's going on ? Why can't we leave ?" More shouts that echoed the man's sentiment.

The mounted guardsman reared his horse and brandished his sword. "Listen 'ere you lot, two fine men Sergeant-at-Arms Medlin, son of Med, and Lord Steward Denethor, son of Ecthelion, lie dead, murdered, by the Cowards of the White Hand ! By decree of the new Lord Steward Boromir, son of Denethor, not a man will leave this place until all have proven themselves whether of their innocence or guilt."

Lucille took his hand, the engagement ring flashing in the sun as she pulled him over to the right wall. When she had pressed him back against said wall, she was obviously incensed, "If you had not insisted on bringing on everything we could have left before this !"

Thomas's mouth briefly dropped open as he blinked in confusion, "I did...?" There was that look in her eye again, that mad look. "I, huh, I suppose that I did. I'm sorry, I just wanted to keep you happy. You know how irritable you get when you do not have the moth with."

The moth was a replica of the black cloth one, which fluttered a wing when the respective of two strings was pulled, that he had made on the same day that Papa beat Lucille with a riding crop. That day was the day that'd given Lucille three small scars across her upper shoulder blades, near to her nape. Otherwise known as the day that had further cemented in his sister's mind that Papa needed to die for them to survive.

Her madness and anger faded as she kissed him chastely, "How thoughtful of you, love."

With how rare it was for her to call him such a warmth rushed into his limbs and he hugged her. Now, they would wait, wait and hope that his proficiency had not run its course for the day.  


End file.
